Portrait
by Wrong Name Tag
Summary: The final battle with Harry and Voldemort. When one enters the school, Hogwarts, they can take in a miraculous sight--a painting of the boy who lived. Please rr


Upon entering Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, one can set eyes on a miraculous sight. Never before had a portrait been so beautifully constructed.  
  
Right before the viewer's eyes, as wide as a door and tall as a bookshelf, was a boy aged in his early twenties, a solemn expression on his face and his emerald eyes sparkling. His jet-black hair fell around those eyes messily, and he appeared exhausted, even in this painting, but pleased. Behind him flew a phoenix with golden tail feathers that streamed fire through the air and a unicorn prancing through the field that lay beyond him, shimmering in all her purity.  
  
Everyday, the Headmistress passes by that portrait; and everyday Professor Weasley thinks of that time, nearly fifty years ago, when a fight between one Dark Lord and a boy written to power in a prophecy occurred. Few could forget.  
  
-*-  
  
The wind picked up around the slain, dust from the earth swirling into a whirlwind around two tall figures; circling them, trapping them into their world until they were hidden from the sight of those still graced with life after such a battle where the blood ran free and bathed the golden meadow.  
  
On one side was the dark: serpents of the earth twined around the legs of the man who had cursed the magical world for so many decades. His blazing scarlet eyes were pools of blood yearning to flow free; his very complexion that of re-awoken death. Lord Voldemort, with his wand held high.  
  
Needless to say, the remaining figure was Harry Potter; older by a good decade than he had been when his godfather had fallen. Never had he forgiven himself, nor had he given up the fight. Nor was he going to.  
  
Once again it was the olden days, both men with their wands held high and straight, knights awaiting the move of the other. Round and round they circled, eyes the colors of Christmas when put together never wavering in their watch.  
  
"Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. Alone I have you at last." On he spun, graceful in his movements for a man of his age.  
  
"And alone you shall fall."  
  
Words need not be spoken in such a joust: The pair were too above such things as spells and charms that only clouded the true intentions of the caster. Fire met ocean mist as their thoughts joined together; neither could loose. Both had too much to hope for.  
  
Strain was upon their faces, willing their phoenix to prove greater then the others. But, how could wands forged from the magic of the same creature overpower the other? Intentions.  
  
"Have you said goodbye to those you love? Or shall you be saying hello to those you have lost?" Ocean-fire flared up in fury and fell back from the same source. Lord Voldemort's eyes glinted in the wand-light maliciously. "Ah, so there lie your soft spot."  
  
"Stuff it."  
  
"Oh how you hurt me with your words," he hissed. A snake slithered away from him to glide around the ankles of the younger man. Harry bit down on his lip--loss of concentration was all he needed to fail. This time there was no room for failure. "Now, shall we recite those you have lost? Those who have left you behind?" Another wave of ocean swelled over the fire, only to wash back again. "Or, shall it be those you will leave behind with your death?"  
  
"At least I have those who will mourn me."  
  
Ocean crept up a few inches upon the land of lava, pushing over the balance between the two elements. "What makes you think they will be alive to mourn you?"  
  
"They have too much to live for to die so soon."  
  
"You have too much faith in life."  
  
"You have too much faith death." Harry put more force into his words, willing his Phoenix to inch on just a bit more. This man--weak in all his power; alone in all his evil glory--did not deserve a death in battle. In the era of the Vikings, to die in battle was to be accepted to his heaven. And heaven was a place Harry was sure he didn't want to send Lord Voldemort to. So, he did not wish for him to die, but wished for him to live. Live with all the life that had been stolen away from him in his youth. What better force could be placed upon one such as pity?  
  
"And what is that supposed to mean?" Ocean tide and lava swirls, pushing each other on, pulsing with the will power of each their bearers.  
  
"You know what it means. Though you wish to rule the waking world; though you wish to conquer those different from you with your own beliefs, you also wish to die. Some young boy, living inside of you, probably just as I am, standing here, is calling out to be saved by you. His name would be Tom Riddle,--"  
  
Harry's end pushed up a little further, gained a grain more strength even as Harry weakened from the desire. Voldemort stood tall as ever and full of more vile hatred than before.  
  
"How dare you speak his name."  
  
"Your name."  
  
"He isn't such an innocent boy as you seem to think. Weak, yes. But never would he have supported you. You met him; you know what he was like."  
  
"Never did I speak aloud the word innocence. Lost may have crossed my mind, but innocence was never something I'd think to associate you with."  
  
"Good to see you know something of the world," Voldemort drawled. "And now you shall learn something more." A whole life force went into the next flow of magic, and Voldemort's body--now even more of a shell than it had ever been--fell to the ground, limp in a comatose state.  
  
Such a searing pain that none but Harry Potter had ever grown accustomed to flew through his body, and through his veins, straight to his soul. With a power of its own, the wand owned by the man sprawled on the ground floated through the air, connected to its brother by a beam of fiery light, consuming the wand holder's every being. Voldemort wished for death. Harry willed on life.  
  
And life pushed forward, for Harry still stood. And Harry still thought, and breathed, and could take in the presence of that snake twirling about his feet and the dusted air swirling around his space. And he saw the wand, still connected to his own; he saw it through the pain as if that one beacon of red light was the hope for life--for both of them.  
  
-*-  
  
What happened next, no one truly knew. No more of the story did Harry give out, even to his closest friends. Many supposed Albus Dumbledore may have known, but that he took that secret to his grave.  
  
All that anyone truly knew was that it seemed as if the heavens parted and rained down a rain such as those that can only occur in Great Britain, and it washed away all the blood, and all the death. In the center of the field had been two figures lying on the ground, and two wands connected, tip to tip. One body lay lifeless, the other barely grasping on to life. Lord Voldedmort was gone, just like something straight out of a fairytale, and now, fifty years later, that was all it was. A fairy tale warped only slightly by time.  
  
Harry still lived, but there were few that he kept contact with, and not much that he did but guard his wands. Many young children not properly versed in his hero's tale--or perhaps not wanting to appreciate it--would laugh at him as they passed his hidden house in Grimmauld Place; not really seeing it, but knowing it was there. So amusing they found it that he guarded those wands with his very life, as if--if he didn't--his life would be lost. He was always funny about those wands, and he even got a new one to perform any simple spells with, blatantly refusing anyone's offers of removing his old wand from that of the Dark Lord's. To the older generation, he was the world's next Mad Eye Moody.  
  
Hermione smiled as she passed by the portrait of her Hogwarts friend one morning, and grinned even broader as her eyes caught sight of the signature gracing the bottom in a glittering gold.  
  
Colin Creevey. 


End file.
